38th

by Sam L.

“Crunch!” The landing craft hit the beach and the door opened. I saw pure hell. Machine guns and explosions went off, and the dead covered the beach. Without realizing it, I was running towards the end of the beach, and the cliff base, following my brother Michael. Then suddenly, a sniper’s bullet pierced my brother’s leg; he toppled over, and moaned. I sped over to him, and pulled him onto my shoulders, but before I could continue running, I looked up to the top of the cliff. The same rifleman aimed at me and fired. I saw the flash. For a split second I saw the bullet whizzing to me, then, black.

I jolted awake in my bed, covered in cold sweat. It was the nightmare again. It had been six years since my brother died on Normandy Beach during the D-day invasion. It had been eight years since the conversation when I suggested to my brother the idea of joining the army. My remembrance of the actual conversation was always fuzzy. He talked to Mom and Dad, and eventually joined. He fought in North Africa and Italy, before dying on D-day. He was carrying the wounded from the beach to safety at the base of the cliff. On the fifth trip he was shot through the leg and head by a sniper. For his heroism he won the Purple Heart and the Congressional Medal of Honor. Because I planted the idea of joining the military in his head, I blamed myself for his death. Ever since, I was cursed by having the nightmare of being with him when he died.

An American main street in the 1950s

While trying to shake the horrors of my guilt, I took a bath and got dressed for school. As with every morning, I had to make my own breakfast. The reason for this was that my parents both worked at the hospital. We lived in Granville, Ohio, a town with only a couple thousand inhabitants. There was a shortage of doctors, so they both had long shifts that started very early in the morning. After I had prepared my fried eggs, I placed them on the table and moved to the radio in our kitchen. Turning it on, I listened to the voice that sputtered out, “Last night the Boston Braves knocked out the Reds 5-2. An effective sweep of the four game series.” I sighed, and muttered a curse under my breath. Not again. “In other news,” the man announced, “there is a large storm system coming for the Midwest.”

I went to the table and sat down to begin eating. The newspaper from that morning was lying on the table. As I chewed on a bite of egg, I picked it up and read the headline: Soviet Weapons Flood North Korea as Tension in the East Ensues. This had been in the news for weeks. The spread of communism that our country was desperately trying to halt wasn’t exclusive to Korea, though. Joe McCarthy was irrationally making accusations, accusing the State Department of containing 205 communists just that year. It went both ways, though. The year before, communist China came out triumphant, expelling the nationalists to Taiwan. This gave North Korea the green light for a possible invasion of the South.

I began to grow depressed by current events, only to remember that it was the last day of school. A sudden lightness grew in me as I forgot all about Korea and communism. June 23rd! The last day of school for months! With my changed mood, I decided a change of radio station was necessary. I changed the station to a favorite of mine. The smooth and unorthodox voice of Muddy Waters poured out.

Well I'm goin' away to leave.

Won't be back no more.

Goin' back down south, child

Don't you want to go?

After breakfast I headed out to begin the mile walk to school, but not before I met up with Evelyn Brookman. She had lived next to me since before I could walk, but we only became good friends when we both lost brothers in the war. As with every other day, she was waiting for me at the sidewalk across the street from my house.

“Last day of school. Aren’t you excited?” she asked. When I didn’t respond, she poked me with a different question. “Did you have the dream again?”

“Yes.”

“Have you told your parents about it yet?”

“No. Can we not talk about it?”

“Fine.” We both completed the mile walk in silence. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the smell of summer was in the air, but none of this could soften the blow of my nightmare.

Most of that day went by in a blur. Just sitting, waiting for the final bell to ring so we could leave. I found myself in homeroom just a few minutes before the final bell with my teacher, Mrs. McDonald, discussing the growing conflict in Korea, asking questions and waiting for students to answer.

“What is the name of the U.S. endorsed leader in the South?” she asked. Several students raised their hands halfheartedly.

“Syngman Rhee,” I muttered under my breath.

“Jim,” selected Mrs. McDonald.

“Kim Il Sung,” he confidently declared.

“Wrong, Jim, that’s the North,” she responded. “The correct answer is Syngman Rhee. Next, what is the parallel on which the Korean Peninsula is split?” No hands went up. “No one? You aren’t leaving until this is answered correctly.” I sighed and raised my hand. “Nathaniel,” she said immediately.

“The 38th,” I responded.

“That is correct.” Just then the bell rang and students excitedly got up and quickly moved through the classroom door, and out the school in a sea of conversation and noise.

As soon as I got out of the school, I spotted Evelyn under a giant oak tree.

“You’re late,” she prodded.

“Sorry,” I responded. “Mrs. McDonald held my class up for a question about Korea.”

“Let’s go get ice cream,” she suggested. “Your treat.” I produced a small snicker and followed her towards the town broadway.

Granville’s broadway was known to bear a resemblance to New England, in its character and architecture. One could hear laughter and conversation, while smelling fresh cooked food. Taylor’s Rexall was a favorite of ours ever since we were small children. There we could buy pop, floats, and other treats. When we got to the store we heard a ruckus coming from the inside.

“Get that crap out of here!” yelled Butch Taylor as he chased two hoods trying to tear each other apart out of his store. He had his double barrel out and was firing it into the air in an effort to break up the fight.

“Not again,” I muttered as I ran towards the brawl. The two fighting were Jacob Martin and John White. Jacob was a good seven inches taller than John and clearly winning. A black fry cook named Conner Robinson helped me tear Jacob off of John and hold him back.

“Get your hands off of me, you damned Negro!” yelled Jacob. “My father will have you jailed for this!” The diner Conner worked for was owned by Jacob Martin’s family. This made Conner reconsider before answering.

“You would have been in big trouble if you had finished beating that boy. Your father will probably pay me as thanks for keeping you out of it!” As soon as we got Jacob off White, White stood up and charged at his restrained enemy. Evelyn was watching and, being stronger than she looked, she grabbed him and shoved him against the glass window. When John began to overpower Evelyn, she rammed her knee into the back of his, and John collapsed on the ground. He stayed there until the police arrived.

In Granville there were two rival gangs with twenty to thirty members each. They split their territory on a north to south border through Broadway. But they never quite agreed on where the border was, so often fights broke out when someone from one gang was caught somewhere on the blurred line by the opposite side. That is what we witnessed that day.

After authorities came to secure the brawlers, Evelyn and I got our floats and went to see a film called The Third Man. When the film was over, the time was about 7:30. It was still perfectly light out, but I had to head home for dinner, which I was almost late for.

That night, dinner was quiet as usual. I had no living siblings, my parents were usually exhausted from work, and I had no skill for conversation, so we hardly had talks at dinner. Suddenly I finally had the courage. For months I had been working up the nerve to tell my parents about my nightmare, but always backed out at the last second. I was finally going to do it.

“Mom, Dad?” I said softly. I looked up at them. My dad was tall, about 6’6”, and my mom was short, about 5’1”. Nonetheless, they shared two common traits: they both had brown hair and brown eyes, like me.

“Yes, Nathaniel?” responded my mom, as both parents looked up at me. Suddenly I felt all the courage and nerve drip off of me, like rain. Out of panic, I quickly came up with a question.

“May I go to the lake party for the end of school?” I asked. “Everyone will be there.”

“How long will you be?” responded my father.

“From about noon ‘til dinner.”

“That’s fine,” my father answered. He then turned to my mother to say, “Right dear?” to which my mother nodded. I sighed quietly. I didn’t know why it was so hard and scary to tell my parents about my nightmare. Maybe I thought they would blame me too, but my struggle to tell them went on.

That night it was just the same; I had my nightmare and woke up in a cold sweat. Once again my parents were gone by the time I sat down to breakfast. The radio was already on news and the paper was on the table. Current events spouted out of the radio, explaining the developments in communist suppression in South Africa. I picked up the paper and read the front page headline. Skirmishes continue on 38th Parallel. I tossed the paper to the other side of the table and took a sip of orange juice while I thought of my plans for the first day of summer. Though I had made up a question to get out of telling my parents about the dream, I hadn’t lied about the lake party. I started paying attention to the radio and I heard: “The conflict in the east steepens! Korean leaders attempt to reunite the two nations into one nation, but differences in political ideas and leadership make the process slow going as the two nations are in a bitter disagreement.” I didn’t want to listen to it. The first day of summer vacation and I was being force-fed information about depressing world events. I quickly walked over to the radio and shut it off, deciding to eat in quiet.

Around 11:00 I met up with Evelyn and began walking to the lake for the party. For the most part the pool is the big place for swimming, but it’s usually overcrowded so a lot of students prefer the lake. Music filled the air along with laughter and conversation, while people were swimming, dancing and talking. I was sitting with a few of my teammates from the baseball team when I heard arguing behind me. I turned around to find seven or eight members of both gangs arguing over whose turf was whose. I sighed and dismissed it until I heard commotion and saw people running towards the argument.

Turning around once more, I saw that the argument had turned into a brawl with punches landing, and some wooden boards or folding chairs were flying. I cursed under my breath and was about to run and try to stop the fight when one of my teammates spoke.

“Hey Nate! Look at Billy!” Billy Jones was a freshman eager to be friends with the upperclassmen. His misadventures usually led him into trouble with one person or another. At that moment he was trying to be cool by bringing a knife and rushing towards the fight. As soon as I saw the knife, I sped to him and tackled him onto the sand. Shouting curses at his stupidity, I picked up the knife and threw it a good thirty yards into the water.

As I continued in stopping the brawl, I noticed two members from the East carrying a member from the West across the dock. The kid they were carrying was a sophomore named Ed Sark. He had been in my history class, and though I didn’t know him well, I had learned one thing about him. He never learned to swim. I yelled “No!” just as the two from the East threw Ed into the water. I began to sprint down the dock as the two hoods watched Ed struggle to stay afloat and eventually go under.  

By the time I reached the end of the dock, Ed had been under for a few seconds. I dived in as soon as I got to the end. As soon as I hit the water I felt like I was going in slow motion, trying to go faster but feeling sluggish all the way. I saw Ed through the murky water about six feet down; I swam under him, grabbed him by the waist with both hands and, kicking as hard as possible, jetted the two of us to the surface.

When we reached the surface, we both took huge breaths of air before I towed him back to the beach. As soon as we were shallow enough to stand, I released him, only to take hold of his soaking shirt and drag him to shore. The fight was still going on when we got to dry land. I leaned over him and checked if he was still breathing. When I clarified that he was fine, I began to drag him to a lawn chair when out of nowhere, a guy from the West ran to us and swung a two by four at me. I saw it approach and heard a deafening CRACK! Lights out.

I woke up, and the first thing I felt was cold glass on my forehead. I opened my eyes and the world was filled with blinding light. Evelyn entered my corrupted vision as I squinted to adjust to the light. She held a cold Coca-Cola bottle to my head. I heard her say, “Mr and Mrs. McDonald! He’s awake!” I winced at the surprising loudness of her voice. My surroundings were familiar. I was in my bed, in my room.

My parents entered the room as I heard my father say, “Not so loud, child. He may have a concussion.”

“How are you feeling, honey?” asked my mother.

“I have a roaring headache and everything's bright,” I responded. “What happened?”

“Someone saw you come out of the water after saving Ed and they knocked you out with a plank of wood,” answered Evelyn. “I think he’s fine, so I’m going to leave; my parents are expecting me.” After she left, my parents told me more about the story. After I was out cold, the police came to stop the fight. Evelyn had to call my parents to pick us up in my father’s car.

“You should thank her,” my mother remarked after the story was over.

“I will tomorrow,” I answered. Suddenly I had my burst of courage to ask my parents about what I couldn’t before. “Ma, Pa, I’ve wanted to tell you this forever. I have been having nightmares about Michael and I think they’re because it’s my fault that he joined the military and died.”

“What are you talking about, Nathaniel?” responded my father.

“I told Michael he should join the military all those years ago. It was my fault!” I felt tears forming in my eyes.

“Nathaniel, I think you’re remembering wrong. Michael joined on his own accord. You actually tried to stop him from joining.”

“What?” I puzzlingly asked.

“The night the military was brought up for Michael, it was him who suggested it. Not you.” We talked for hours about Michael, the nightmares, and his choice; every minute I felt more and more of the guilt turn to relief. After we were done talking, my parents left my room and let me sleep. For the first time in a while, I felt peacefulness in my slumber, and I had a feeling it was there to stay.

I woke up, and sun peaked through my window. No storm.

“The newscasters were wrong,” I said to myself. Like every other day I got up, took a bath, and got dressed. I went downstairs, walked outside, and retrieved the newspaper from the walk. Then I stepped into my kitchen from the outside. My parents didn’t work on Sundays, and since they had to wake early every other day of the week, they liked to sleep in on Sundays. It was 9:30 and they were still in bed. I unfolded the newspaper and read the date, Sunday, June the 25th, 1950. Next, my eyes moved to the headline. When I read it, I dropped the paper from shock at what I had read. All the joy of being done with the nightmares left and was replaced once again with dread. I looked out the back window and I saw that I had been wrong about the weather; a colossal grey cloud was on the horizon, with no blue in view in that direction. Bending over, I picked the paper up to make sure I read the headline right: North Korea Crosses 38th and Invades South, US Promises Swift Retaliation. Without thinking, my arm threw the paper across the table as I looked out to the oncoming cloud. A storm was coming, and so was a war.